


can't cover what your eyes expose.

by redhoods



Series: fictober 2019. [14]
Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, UnDeadwood, casual blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 03:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21229016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoods/pseuds/redhoods
Summary: “How about—” Clayton cuts off, words fading into a hiss as he steps away, “How about we don’t tell Miriam about this?” He takes the few steps to the mouth of the cave, then pivots suddenly, “And next time, bring your goddamn shotgun.”Matthew feels his mouth twist against his own volition, swallows back chastisement, “Only if you let me look at your wound,” he counters, setting his jaw.Clayton narrows his eyes, but jerks his chin, the closest to acquiescence as he gets as he starts walking, not looking to see if Matthew is even following him, but of course he is. The line of his shoulders is so tight and Matthew can’t help but drop his eyes to the ground, waiting to see a drip trail of blood behind him.





	can't cover what your eyes expose.

**Author's Note:**

> uh.
> 
> fictober.
> 
> there's no real descriptions of the wound or the violence, but the blood is mentioned a handful of times and the reverend is stitching him up so.
> 
> yeah. can't wait for them to dash all my thoughts and headcanons in the two whole remaining episodes.
> 
> title from come my way by brown bird.

The back of his coat is slick when Matthew tries to grab hold of it, tries to grab hold of Clayton to haul him back against the wall of the cave and out of sight. He makes another desperate bid of it, gets a hand over his shoulder and pulls, ends up dragging Clayton right back against his chest. His own chest is heaving as he tries to catch his breath, but he can still feel the fine tremble that runs through Clayton just once.

They both hold very, very still.

Matthew presses his forehead to the back of Clayton’s neck and he can see the blood that’s starting to smear from Clayton’s coat to his own. Bites back his concerned noise, because there are still footsteps rushing by where they’re hidden, the pound of horse hooves on packed dirt.

Even pressed against him, even obviously injured, Clayton’s stiff as a board, gun held aloft, ready to fire if need be.

Lifting his head, he turns it against the cave wall, presses his cheek against the stone as he peers out as best he can. He slides his hand from Clayton’s shoulder down his arm, resists the urge to curl it around him, to hold him close, instead drops his hand fully to his own side. His fingers curl for his shotgun that isn’t there.

The footsteps finally fade away and Matthew slumps down against the cave wall, “We were just supposed to be looking,” he hisses quietly into the dark, as if Clayton himself isn’t also well aware of that fact.

“How about—” Clayton cuts off, words fading into a hiss as he steps away, “How about we don’t tell Miriam about this?” He takes the few steps to the mouth of the cave, then pivots suddenly, “And next time, bring your goddamn shotgun.”

Matthew feels his mouth twist against his own volition, swallows back chastisement, “Only if you let me look at your wound,” he counters, setting his jaw.

Clayton narrows his eyes, but jerks his chin, the closest to acquiescence as he gets as he starts walking, not looking to see if Matthew is even following him, but of course he is. The line of his shoulders is so tight and Matthew can’t help but drop his eyes to the ground, waiting to see a drip trail of blood behind him.

\-----

It’s dark by the time they make it to the church, having picked their way carefully back and around the town, not wanting to draw undue attention and not wanting to chance running into the pursuers once more. Matthew thinks it’s very telling that Clayton lets himself be corralled, is careful as he takes his elbow and leads him to the church, up the stairs on the undamaged side of the building.

His face is very pale now, “S’there a room still safe up here?”

“Ah, yes,” Matthew answers, blinking away from his profile to focus on the door as he fumbles for his keys, “It’s sturdy enough to hold my weight, though I’m hesitant to trust the, uh, the overall safety of staying in the church on my own.”

“Considering what happened to the last father, can’t say as that a blame ya,” Clayton’s voice goes a little slurred at the end, though he doesn’t seem to acknowledge it, treading in as soon as the door swings open.

It’s only a small space, a bedroom with an old musty bed, rusted frame, a dresser that’s leaning just enough that anything placed on top goes sliding off, a desk with a bible jammed under one corner to keep it from wobbling. He wisely sets their lantern on the desk.

Clayton stands only a foot in from the doorway, “Just as shitty as the rest of this god forsaken town.”

Matthew curls his lip, decides he doesn’t want to hash it out with an injured man, especially a stubborn mule like Clayton, and pulls the chair out from the desk. It might be the only piece of decent furniture in the place, “Here, sit, before you fall over from blood loss.”

There’s a lot of grumbling and Clayton gives him a pointed glare that Matthew’s more than used to ignoring as he shrugs out of his coat and vest. He turns away then and straddles the chair as he’s working on the buttons of his shirt. The back of it is dark, sticking to his skin, and before he can offer to help, Clayton’s yanking it off, without even making a sound at the pain it has to cause.

More blood slides down in a trail on his back, adding to the mess it already is.

Turning away for a moment, Matthew swallows as he goes to the dresser and opens the top drawer. There’s not much of anything in it, he carries what he needs on him as often as he can, but the little kit is there and some bandages that aren’t great, but will have to do. A couple of old rags too.

“Those for your shavin’ accidents?” Clayton asks.

When he looks, Clayton’s got his arms crossed on the back of the chair, chin settled on him, watching him with dark eyes. His hat’s on the desk, the ruined shirt on the floor. “Yes, those,” Matthew says and looks away.

The bottom drawer sticks when he pulls and it takes one good yank for it to slide out completely and hit the floor with a dull thud. The sole content slides and clinks against the side and he lifts out the bottle and turns, finds Clayton still watching him, something curious in his gaze. 

“What?” He walks to the desk and dumps all he’s gathered there in the lantern light, spreading them out.

“I haven’t met a whole lotta reverends in my life, but I know for damn sure, there wasn’t a single one built like you,” Clayton says, which is one of the longest phrases that didn’t involve threatening someone’s life or calling them on their shit that Matthew’s ever heard out of him.

He frowns down at the items in front of him as he opens the lantern and, careful of his fingertips, heats the needle in the flame, “The Lord accepts those from all walks, no matter their former lives.”

It takes him three tries to the thread the needle, before he places it down on the desk and picks up the bottle. When he turns, Clayton is looking at him over his shoulder, eyes narrowed once more, though it’s losing the effect the more blood he loses, “And what was your former life, Father?”

Maybe it’s cruel, because Clayton turns his head away and he’s waiting for answer of some sort, but Matthew approaches and thumb over the opening, tips the bottle over Clayton’s back, only a second later warns, “This will sting.”

Clayton hisses loudly, swears out a streak several miles wide that might even make Miriam blush.

Red tinted whiskey splashes on the floor around the chair, splatters on his shoes some. Matthew rights the bottle and uses one of the rags to start wiping away the worst of it as best he can, gentle, even strokes. When the rag is saturated and no longer useful, he lets it drop to his feet as well. He steps away to get the needle and thread.

When he turns back, Clayton has sagged forward against the chair, “That was low, especially from you, Father,” he says quietly.

“You always going to call me Father?” He asks instead of deigning to reply, pushing the dropped clothing and rag out of his way with his foot. He sinks to his knees there at the back of the chair, knowing he won’t be able to hunch over to stitch this wound.

Clayton doesn’t move, “Shall I call you Reverend Mason then?”

Sighing, he touches the space just below the wound, a nasty looking slice just below his shoulder blades that will surely add to the collection of scars already covering Clayton’s back, “How about Matthew? You’re the only one of our friends that’s holding out on it.”

The breath that Clayton takes it ragged, “Fine, Matthew,” he nearly bites it out, like its been dragged out against his will.

“Was that so terrible?” He asks quietly, doesn’t give a chance for Clayton to snipe at him, “I’m going to start stitching now.”

“Wait,” Clayton says suddenly, “Give me the bottle first.”

Matthew blinks at his back several times, before nodding even though Clayton can’t see him. He has to stand and return to the desk to fetch it but he presses it into Clayton’s willing hand before he sinks back down once more.

Silence falls as Clayton drinks.

As much silence as can fall in Deadwood anyhow, given the drunks shouting outside, the occasional pop of gunfire that neither of them so much as flinch at. Then Clayton lowers the bottle, lets it dangle between his fingers, “Alright.”

He nods, to himself again, and sits up on his knees, pressing the fingers of one hand to either side of the cut to hold it closed as he starts the painstakingly slow process of stitching it together. The last thing he wants is to rush and snap his thread. Or cause any further damage. His knees are aching and damp from the whiskey and blood before he’s even halfway done and he hardly notices, focused on the rising and falling of Clayton’s torso under his hands, the careful pass of the needle.

“You’re surprising deft at this,” Clayton says, just beyond the halfway mark, voice steadier than it had been before the whiskey.

Matthew hums quietly, acknowledgement, waits until he’s finished a stitch, “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

And Clayton falls quiet once more, possibly turning this information over in his head like he does ever other bit he manages to glean from any one of them, like he’s waiting for the fragment that’ll put the final nail in one of their coffins.

When he finishes, he snaps the thread as carefully as he can and sits back on his heels, “There.”

Clayton sits up properly, nods, before he starts to push himself to stand. He seems to realize that’s not going to be as easy as he thinks it will be, because he almost immediately sinks back down, but this time turned around the proper way in the chair, though hunched forward so his wound isn’t against the wood. His gaze is clear, though his face is still pale, a little clammy with sweat.

Neither of them speaks for several long moments.

Then Clayton clears his throat, glances away, taking in the blood and whiskey on the floor, his ruined clothing, “Never thought I’d see a man of the cloth such as yourself on his knees for anything but the Lord.”

Matthew blows out a breath, almost a laugh, says quiet to Clayton’s profile, “You’d be surprised by what could put a man like me on his knees.”

It snaps Clayton’s gaze back to him, gaze sharp, eyes navy in the dim lantern light of the room. Their gazes hold for seconds that feel like hours, before he snorts out a breath, “Is that so, Matthew?” It’s almost sarcastic, almost biting, but doesn’t quite make it there like he thinks Clayton means for it to.

Managing a smile, he braces his hands on his own thighs and pushes himself to stand. His knees creak something awful and one actually cracks when he takes a step to the table to drop the needle on it, “It is.”

He hears Clayton stand behind him, hears the shuffle of him moving, “I might have to reconsider my previous notions of you then.”

“How awful would that be,” Matthew says as he turns, bandages in his hand.

Clayton is standing at the dresser, looking down at it like he’s considering snooping, doesn’t seem the slightest bit apologetic when he notices Matthew noticing him. He stays quiet, almost pensive as he lifts his arms to let himself be wrapped up.

“That’ll do until you can see someone properly for that,” he tells Clayton as he takes a step away, rather than standing there trying to catalogue the differences in their heights or the fan of Clayton’s eyelashes, “Which you will. I will not hesitate to bring your injury to Miss Landisman’s attention if I see fit.”

It makes Clayton grin, this slow spreading thing, “You’re learning.”

“Have to, to keep up with all of you,” Matthew admits, shrugging out of the leather duster that Clayton had given him however many months ago now, “Here, I can’t imagine you’ll want to walk through town like that and I am not letting you put those ruined clothes back over that clean wound.”

Clayton stares at the duster then at him, back down to the duster before he reaches out and grasps it, slings it on. It’s too big in the shoulders, almost too long as well, but he does the buttons up with deft fingers, no longer trembling.

And Matthew has to turn away, has to step back to the desk to take the lantern in hand, leaving the mess to worry about some other time, “I’m hungry, are you?”

“Famished,” Clayton says as they both head for the door.

Clayton stops him at the door though, in the frame, hand to his chest, pressing him right back to the wood of the frame digs into his spine. It puts them very close like this and if anyone were to see them well, there’s certainly many ways this could be misconstrued.

Matthew’s own mind is spinning quite rapidly away from him, trying to understand it is that’s happening with Clayton so very close, “Clayton?”

There’s a long dragged out pause where Clayton merely stares up at him, gaze inscrutable as always, but intent, eyes still dark especially so now that the lantern is down at their waists still in Matthew’s grip, “I wanted to thank you, Matthew,” he says finally, low, the name drawn out of him. Like smoke, honey, sweet and intangible, purposeful.

Matthew swallows thickly, “Whatever for?”

Clayton snorts, “For stitching me back together, of course.” It’s not mean, his tone, it’s soft, gentle, none of his usual bite.

“Oh,” he says, nods, “I couldn’t very well leave you wounded and not do anything.”

“You very well could have,” Clayton replies, still so very close, he’s got his hat in his hand and a breeze drifts through, stirs up his hair, “I would have done it to you.”

Matthew clears his throat, tightens his grip on the handle of the lantern, “I don’t think that’s true.”

Clayton blinks up at him, actually rocks back on his feet like he’s been caught off guard, stunned and eyes only a bit wider, but Matthew’s learning to read him, has been for months, he sees it. Then Clayton smiles, a very small thing, “Maybe you’re right, maybe you I would have helped.”

The way he says ‘you’, like Matthew is the special factor in this all.

But Clayton is turning already, heading down the stairs, “Lets go to the Bullock, change into something fresher then see if we can find the others.”

Matthew’s head hits the frame with a hollow sound as he exhales, inhales again, then pushes off the wall, “Sounds like a good plan,” he says as he follows down the stairs. He adjusts his grip on the lantern, and when he looks down at it, the handle is bent to the shape of his hand.

He doesn’t bother praying to God for mercy on this one.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @vowofenmity on twitter


End file.
